SONNET 140
Your visage contrite, gorgeous e'en if sleep-deposed
When bureaucrats guilt from their psalter, finishes
Binding t' reduce hysterics, the priest's hand dispose
No ritual now the calmer. Riddles are finesse;
Prior meditations to 'ts eternal. Father
Crosses and marched with us, chained officiant to the sphinx:
"What's rounder than round but words thy ends slit clearer?"
'Words are all we have.' Thought I; riddled truth death links
Since vows were for our life to bring, my wife, bringer 'f
Life you've been this narrative truer 'fore the line.
If thoughts o'ersurge thy eyes, thy lips to thy years --
Material for moiety, though waning, rebinds --
"A finger," spoke I right. Its starfield, once my shame,
Vacates not. "Inert are words, 'that this reprieve" slays.'
